Sharing Scars
by Boticelli Puzzle
Summary: Harry and Draco are happy together now, with Voldemort defeated. But when Draco finds out how Harry saved him, he has second thoughts about who he is and where he stands. SLASH
1. The Final Battle

Draco frowned down at him. "Your nose is a little…crooked. Not as a bad thing," he added hastily. "It just is."

Harry closed his eyes and laughed, shaking his head. "You idiot, you're the one who did it to me!"

"When I…?" Draco asked hesitantly, fiddling with the sheets massed around them.

"Stepped on my face? Yeah," Harry answered bluntly, but still smiling good-naturedly.

"Right," Draco replied simply. "Well, fine, then. See these scars?" He pulled off his shirt.

Harry sat up and rolled his eyes. "Yes, I _know _you just can't resist showing off your perfect body Draco, but not right now. "

"No, really!" Draco insisted. "Here." He grabbed Harry's hand and put it on his stomach.

There were fine, hair-thin ridges along his abdomen, and white scar lines showed starkly against Harry's darker hand. Harry's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Oh, my God…when I?"

Draco nodded. "When you ripped apart my body with a strange, unknown spell, yeah."

"You tried to Crucio me," Harry objected. "It was self-defense."

"My Crucio wouldn't have hurt you anyway. I didn't have the strength for it." Draco turned so his profile faced the window.

"And I was supposed to know this because?" Harry reminded him skeptically.

"Because I stepped on your face," Draco replied reasonably and matter-of-factly.

"That makes a whole lot of sense," Harry said, laughing again.

"No," Draco groaned, laughing as well. "No, see, in sixth year…" He stopped abruptly, shrugging his shirt back on.

"Go on," Harry said, serious.

"It doesn't matter." Draco turned and got off the bed, smoothing out the bed sheets. "Move, you great lump."

"No," Harry said resolutely. "Please tell me." Draco further busied himself with the sheets, ignoring Harry. "Draco," Harry pleaded.

"If I tell you, you're going to laugh, Harry," Draco sighed. "We've been through this already."

"Last time you said that I didn't even laugh," Harry retorted. "I promise I won't laugh at you. Why would I? If it's something that personal and important to you, I couldn't laugh."

Draco put his hands on his hips and sighed. "That sounds really great when you say it, Harry."

"I don't understand you!" Harry said, frustrated. "You – "

"It was because I thought you were beautiful," Draco interrupted quickly, then turned away, hands still fixing the sheets, but trembling slightly.

Harry stared at him from the bed. "Draco…"

"I thought you were so beautiful, but I was _supposed _to hate you, and everybody, and have no compassion for beauty…" Draco continued bleakly.

"But you have a great eye for beauty," Harry argued, getting off the bed and wrapping his arms around Draco's waist.

Draco smirked and looked his lover in the eye. "More than a little arrogant, aren't we?"

"What? I mean…oh," Harry laughed. "No, I meant your paintings, for example."

"Harry, they're not that great. They never turn out the way I want them to." Draco wriggled smoothly out of Harry's arms and crawled back onto the bed. "Like this one. I don't know what's wrong with it, but there's something off."

Harry rested his chin on Draco's shoulder. "I think all it needs is a little acceptance. It feels disgruntled that you're unhappy with it."

"You're cute," Draco quipped.

"I thought I was _beautiful_," Harry commented, teasing. "Sorry," he added. "I wasn't trying to – "

"You are beautiful; absurdly so," Draco murmured, his lips a centimeter away from Harry's.

"You're absurdly sexy," Harry whispered, chapped lips tingling with anticipation. He sighed softly as Draco kissed the corner of his mouth, ad worked inwards rather chastely.

Just as it was getting exciting, Harry caught a glimpse of his watch. "Time to go to work!" he said brightly, sliding off the bed. "Seven- thirty honey."

"Bloody tease," Draco said loudly. "No, I'm kidding. I'll see you later."

"It's not like I _want_ to stop," Harry said petulantly, picking out robes.

They dressed in silence, but not uncomfortably, it was simply the busy swish of robes and bathroom trips. "What class do you have first this morning?" Harry asked, checking one last time in the mirror.

"None, but I have the sixth year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs at one. Always a pleasure," Draco said, rolling his eyes.

"Second year Gryffindors and Slytherins," replied Harry.

Draco shot him a look. "I bet you love that," he said sarcastically.

"I do," Harry said sincerely, turning around and smiling at Draco.

"I wish it were a Saturday," Draco yawned, stretching.

"Don't we all. I'll see you at breakfast." Harry kissed Draco intensely, picked up his bag and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Smoothing the bed flat once again, Draco smiled crookedly and reminisced on their relationship. There were so many fond memories. Like that time with the pumpkin pie, and Harry's aunt, uncle and cousin. That was actually fun, Harry seemed to really enjoy having somewhere to call home, finally.

Sometimes Draco wished that the only home Harry would ever have was with him, wherever he might go, so that Harry was totally dependent on him for love and support. But, Draco reflected, it's a different kind of love. _I'd adore to think that our love was unconditional, but fuck that._ Harry wanted him to start being satisfied with less than perfection. He wanted Harry to stop feeling like he had to save the world all the time. 'Cut the hero shit, Harry," he'd say. 'Cut the perfectionist shit,' Harry would reply. 'Draco.'

But Draco knew it was love. How, exactly? He didn't know, and that's how he knew. _What an odd way to define things_, he thought. A few, select people now could only achieve what they had, Harry and him. He loved the way Harry said his name. He loved the way Harry smiled, laughed, cried…he didn't think there was anything Harry could do to shock him anymore.

Draco could still recall the moment when he first felt this way, when he first felt like he could really, truly, give his life up for someone.

BPBPBP

"Malfoy! Malfoy!" Draco faintly heard his name being called. He tried to sit up, or at least turn toward the person, but he had nothing left. His blood was pooled around him; his own flesh was creating a funeral pyre.

"Malfoy." Suddenly there was someone holding his shoulders, breathing into his face. Wide green eyes looked down at him, strong hands held his face. "Malfoy! No, please, stay alive, don't die…we need you…Draco."

"Take," Draco began, and was surprised that he could still talk, "Take my life. Take …the energy and… harness it …to defeat… Voldemort."

"Draco – "

"Harry, you're the one who's supposed to… save us all. I'm just another casualty, Potter. Just another fucking casualty… my name will go down in history, if you put it there. Just let there be a reason..." He was talking shit, and he knew it, but by this point, he really didn't care anymore. He could dully make out the sounds of the battle, but so faintly it seemed as a dream. "Potter, take my soul. Even that's not perfect, because I'm the most screwed person I've ever met…but take my broken soul and kill Voldemort." Draco's breathing was labored, and blood trickled from his many wounds.

"Malfoy, you're talking bullshit. Shut up and I'll take you to the hospital." Those same, warm arms hooked under his legs and his neck. "This is going to be rough, but get through it and you'll be safe," Harry whispered in his ear.

"Take my soul, you faggot," Draco said irritably, wincing as he was lifted from the ground. "There should be enough power in it to at least destroy that stupid machine he's got rigged up."

Potter kept carrying him down the field. "Do you doubt it? Do you doubt the wholeness of my soul? It's fragmented, I know, but I know that at least…" There was the psychological barrier he'd learned to place firmly so many years ago. But, it didn't matter. He might as well say it, now that he was going to die. "Harry, my soul is at least intact enough that I can…Harry…I love you..." At that moment, his vision faded to gray, and the last thought he remembered having was:

_The least the git could do was use my living soul for something. _

BPBPBP

_A/N: This is my first attempt at writing a full-fledged Harry/Draco, with a back story and stuff…I know my way of introducing their meeting is crude, but this is kind of a rough edit, and I will find nicer ways to incorporate the memories later. The last bit is a flashback, by the way…_

_Thanks for reading!_

_Boticelli Puzzle_


	2. Wishful Moments

Breakfast would be over in half an hour, and Draco wanted to get something down his throat before he had to mark papers. He walked quickly, the thoughts about the battle still swirling in his mind. Sometimes he wondered about putting them in a Pensieve, so that he could see what the scene actually looked like. But then, he wasn't ultimately sure he really wanted to know.

"Hi, Hermione," he said, sitting next to her at the teachers table. Most of the teachers were gone, including the headmaster, and the students were clearing out.

"Morning, Draco," she said, buttering a piece of toast. "Harry's over there, you know. Did you get my memo about Teresa Mollins?"

"Yeah, pity about her broken leg. I know where he's sitting," Draco said, reaching for a roll. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions."

"Fire," she said.

"You know at the battle, when Harry picked me up and took me to the tent? You were there, right?"

She nodded. "I suppose you want to know what happened, but are too embarrassed to ask Harry?" Hermione suggested wisely.

"Not exactly," Draco refuted. "It's just…well, close to that, but not exactly."

"He stopped when you said that, you know," Hermione said, sipping her tea.

"What?" Draco asked, completely bewildered.

"When you said, 'I love you', he stopped running," Hermione repeated. "He stopped running, put you on the ground, and used The Vial on you."

"You mean, the phoenix tears?" Draco asked, dry-mouthed.

"He thought you died," Hermione reasoned.

"So did I," Draco said ironically. "I still can't believe…I really wonder why…"

"That, you'll have to ask him," Hermione said, pointing her fork at Harry. "I mean, he loves you now, but I'm not sure why…at any rate. Any other questions?" she asked, not unkindly.

"Yes. Are you still going to marry the Weasel?" Draco asked jokingly. She smiled and got up from her seat. "Yes, my dear ferret, I am. Sorry, but I have to go. First years first thing…I can stand them any other time…"

"See you later, Hermione." Draco's hands trembled. Harry had used the phoenix tears on him? He glanced down the table at the man eating his breakfast.

Harry looked at him, and their eyes met. Draco smiled, picking up his plate to sit next to him.

BPBPBP

"I think I'm going to call you HIM," Draco said idly.

"Why?" Harry queried, flicking through a book.

"Hero-in-the-making," Draco replied matter-of-factly.

Harry laughed. "No, I'm not."

"Yes you are," Draco cut him off, and restrained himself from kissing Harry's temple or something equally ridiculous. He loved Harry. But he also respected him, and if Harry didn't want him in his life in that way, then…he supposed he was content.

All Draco had to do was die in the final battle and he would be all right. No more angsty love, no more pain from the shadows, no more Ginny.

God, he hated that bitch, and he didn't know why.


	3. The Second Challenge

"The Properties of Gillyweed

By Nicole Hart

It may seem strange that such a small plant…"

Draco put down his quill. He had been grading papers for the past hour and a half, down in the dungeons. In that time, he had been up to see Harry twice, just watching from the door each time as Harry taught this generation all about Defense Against the Dark Arts.

He had been through the essays on unicorn tail hairs (first years). And then he started on the third year ones, on gillyweed. After reading Laurence Fourk's (a second Neville Longbottom, if there ever was one), he decided to take a break. He was currently fiddling around with Nicole Hart's (Ravenclaw – at least this essay would make _sense_…), but the only thing that was really on his mind was the memories.

Draco was still in shock. Harry had used the phoenix tears on him? Did he realize the repercussions of what he had done? He imagined he felt little goose bumps of foreboding on his skin.

Oh, Harry. Glancing down at the paper again, Draco smiled slightly. He remembered the time when Harry had used gillyweed to get through the second task, in fourth year. He supposed that he shouldn't have been so worried – after all, it was Harry Potter.

BPBPBP

Draco was silent as Potter stepped into the water, chewing frantically. There were so many things that could go wrong. Maybe Potter wouldn't chew fast enough, and being the subconsciously conformist idiot that he was, take the plunge too fast. Maybe the giant squid would pull him under, drowning him before he figured out what he was capable of. Or, if worst came to worst, Potter would be allergic to gillyweed.

Knowing Draco's luck, it would be all three in quick succession.

Potter's robes were floating on the surface of the lake, and for the moment before the transformation, he glanced to where Draco was sitting. Draco felt the bolt of energy go through him as it did every time.

Then Harry dived, and Draco truly didn't know whether he would ever see him again.

For two tense hours, Draco watched Delacour, Diggory and Krum come up to the surface, and no sign of Potter. Where was he? Distorted visions of grindylows and threatening mermaids morphed through his mind, each fate more terrible than the next.

The air was thick with tension. Finally, just as Draco thought the air would break from the strain, Potter broke the surface of the lake (so gracefully, head thrown back, gasping), clutching Weasley and the little Delacour girl.

Draco's breath was caught between relief and reluctance. If Potter died, then he wouldn't have to worry about making any choices. But if Potter died…Draco didn't quite know if he could stand not being able to see the anger in those eyes, the embarrassment flushing that beautiful skin, the soft breath escaping those perfect lips…

He had told himself over and over that it was purely sexual. After all, he was a fourteen-year-old boy. What could be expected of him? Potter was an obvious choice – heroic, sexy, and blissfully unaware of it. What was there not to love lust after?

BPBPBP

_A/N: Yes, I am aware that the ending did not happen as such…I have just finished book 7….but please, bear with me. I guess this'll have to go under slightly AU, then. _

_Thanks so much to all the people who reviewed. I was so surprised to see so many! They really encourage me to update. Sorry, I have been busy in the last few days. _


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